The explanation of this latter fact had been absurdly simple. Lefty learned in a roundabout way that Jimmy Toler’s letter had traveled to Ashland, Tennessee, and drifted on to the Texan town a couple of days after the busher’s arrival. It seemed incredible that any man could harbor such a thing so long, but Brennan was peculiar in many ways, and Lefty could think of no other reason for his conduct. The other matter which marred his contentment was the fact that Janet, while actually in the same State, was just beyond his reach. It was more tantalizing than if she had remained in that far-away New England town. They corresponded regularly, of course, but letters are always more or less unsatisfactory. Only once had he obtained permission to be away over Sunday, and Brennan’s grudging acquiescence to his request made him resolve never to repeat it. And so the time passed until there remained less than two days more at Ashland. On the twenty-fifth the training quarters would be deserted, and the teams, separating, would commence their homeward march by easy stages and different routes, playing exhibition games with minor-league organizations along the way. The days had sped with such swiftness that Lefty could scarcely believe the end to be so near when he arose that morning, and could say that to-morrow they would start. There was no doubting the fact, however, and, what was more, that very afternoon, a game had been arranged with one of the most prominent teams of the Southern League. It was the first chance the Hornets had been given to play against outsiders since that brief, disastrous contest with the Broncs, and they were agog with eager anticipation. The Flamingoes were in quite a different class from the bush organization of so-called Texans, and the game was likely to be exceedingly close. Lefty was to start off on the slab, so Brennan had briefly informed him the afternoon before. The youngster wondered whether the manager had any special motive in picking him. As the squad started for the field after breakfast, Lefty discovered that he had forgotten his glove, and hurried upstairs for it, telling Fargo that he would be along shortly. When he came down he raced through the lobby and almost upset a small boy in uniform who was coming up the steps. “Say, mister,” the latter inquired, as he recovered his balance, “is Tom Locke inside?” “That’s my name,” Lefty answered swiftly. “What is it?” The boy drew a yellow envelope from his pocket, and Locke snatched it with that queer, sinking feeling which an unexpected missive of the sort usually arouses. Tearing it swiftly open, he brought forth the sheet and unfolded it with a single motion. As his eyes took in the contents at a glance, he drew his breath swiftly, his face turning a shade less brown. The message had been sent from Billings, Texas, that morning. It read: Father is dying. Come at once. I am all alone. JANET.